Chapter 5 - The Descent to the Sub-LevelsThe service elevator indicator light blinked downwards: Floor 3... Floor 2... Floor 1...
I didn't wait for the elevator. I hit the emergency stairwell door and took the steps four at a time, the heavy combat boots I wore beneath my trousers hitting the concrete steps with deafening cracks.
My back throbbed—the old scar tissue pulling slightly under the intense exertion—but the pain was just background noise. Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and sharp.
Five years.
Five years of living in shadows, of grueling physical therapy, of classified debriefs, of listening to intelligence reports about my own family cashing in on the tragedy they helped cause.
I hit the basement parking garage door at a full sprint, throwing my weight against the push bar.
The heavy metal door burst open, echoing into the cavernous underground garage.
Across the concrete floor, Arthur’s custom silver Bentley was idling, its headlights cutting through the exhaust-filled air. Arthur was already yanking the driver’s side door open, panting heavily, his tuxedo tie hanging loose around his neck.
"Arthur," I called out, stepping out from the stairwell shadow.
He froze, one hand on the steering wheel, and whipped his head around. His eyes widened in sheer terror.
"Stay away from me!" he shrieked, pulling a heavy brass briefcase out of the passenger seat—a case filled with bearer bonds and passport documents. "You're a maniac! You ruined everything!"
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"I didn't ruin it, Arthur," I walked slowly toward him, my boots crunching on the dusty concrete. "I just audited it."
He panicked, diving into the car and slamming the door. The engine roared as he threw the Bentley into reverse, tires screeching against the polished concrete floor in a desperate attempt to run me down.
